Revolution
by Hollywood Grimm
Summary: 'We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow' The year is 1943. Stan Marsh is the Wild One, a well to do American boy gone bad. Kenny Cormick is Hitler's Aryan dream turned bitter. And Kyle Broflovski's neon green eyes are shadowed by Auschwitz's barred gates.


**What the fuck possessed me so that I wrote a South Park World War 2 fanfiction on Christmas Day? Oh if only I knew. The depths of my obviously out-of-wack little mind produced this in less than an hour for no reason whatsoever. It's not bad I suppose, I actually have a pretty epic storyline to go with this, you'll see as the story starts to pick up. But as to why I began writing this—I honestly can't answer, because I don't fucking know…I just thought of Stan as the Rebel Without A Cause, Kenny as the Aryan bad boy and Kyle, the fiery one who'd stop at nothing to live another moment. The title is taken from The Beatles song that much is apparent. And 'Flanders Fields' is by John McRae. I hope I get some readers, and reviews are my lifeblood, without them I usually just quit. Uhm what else is there…Oh yes, Merry Christmas everyone! Party hard ;D**

**~~Peace, Love, Flowers, Puppies, Nirvana~~**

**~Mick~~!**

_**Revolution**_

**Location; South Park, Colorado 1943**

The Harley Davidson motorcycle—brand new and glistening with snow—slices down the street loudly, obnoxiously, spewing thick spirals of dust in its wake. "WOOHOO!" Shrieks Wendy Testaburger from the roadside, her cheeks rosy with cold and smile bright with freedom.

Stanley Randall Marsh—seventeen and already a heartbreaker—slides his bike to a screeching halt and grins. He's the Wild One. A well to do American boy gone bad simply for the sake of being bad. "Whoa" His breath is heavy and foggy in the mid September air.

"Oh Stan" Wendy rushes over to him and lays delicate hands on the shoulders of his black leather bomber jacket—a gift from his World War 1 veteran father. "That was incredible" Her honey colored eyes dart two and fro and—seeing nobody around—she plants a heated kiss on the boy's full mouth. Wendy Testaburger at sixteen is already a female and environmental activist—and even though her boyfriend's newest gas guzzling toy—the Harley he's christened 'Sky Dog'—tears apart Colorado's ecosystem—she stands by him. Because beautiful, popular, quirky, rich, smart—the list goes on—Wendy, is in love. In love with the way Stan Marsh's smoky blue eyes sparkle and twirl in the sunshine, how his inky hair—greased back into a duck-tail style—flows so perfectly against the back of his neck.

"You wanna catch a movie Wends?" Stan speaks around a fresh Marlboro cigarette; he pulls out a rusting Zippo lighter and burns the tip. "I heard a new film about the Japs is out."

Rolling her optics Wendy pulls the smoke from Stan's mouth and takes a classy drag from it. "You know I hate that racist propaganda." She inhales deeply again before passing the cigarette back to the boy.

"Yeah I know" Stan sighs; he slips an arm around her curvy waist and winks. "Well I sure could think of something else we could do right about now."

"Stan!" Wendy cries, shoving him away playfully, but then she breaks out in tinkling laughter, her eyes and lips crinkle around the edges. She's so gorgeous.

Stan looks his woman over. Dad's right, she _is_ a keeper. Maybe he'll even marry her in a few years, but Wendy probably wouldn't go for that, she's all about liberty and women's rights. He glances at her hair—long and straight, the blackest black, glossy and held back with a tartan ribbon. When she met up with him this morning she'd been wearing a knee length grey skirt, tiny high heels and a forest green sweater. Of course Wendy being Wendy had hiked the skirt up indecently, shoved the high heels into her purse, put on the motorcycle boots she kept hidden under her bed—ones she'd stolen from Donavan's Foot Wear—and stripped the sweater off so she was just in that lacy rose-white undershirt of hers.

Stan Marsh is living the American dream; One Hell of a woman, a motorcycle, cigarettes and drag racing till midnight.

**Location; Krakow, Germany 1943**

This used to be home. Now their house lies in shambles. A lump rises in Kenny Cormick's trachea, his Adam's apple moving beneath immaculate white skin.

"Name?" The solider with beauty marks—for that is the only thing Kenny notices about the man—questions coldly, formally.

"K-Kenny, Kenny Cormick" His throaty German accent speaks levels about his heritage; he has nothing to worry about.

"You have a brother?" The soldier asks next.

"Y-yes" His voice snaps "Kevin"

"I roomed with him back in 41'. Good man. You'll be fine Cormick. This is just the injustice of living in a war torn area." Beauty-Marks raises a calloused hand to the chaos that Kenny once called a house…a family. Papa died before he was born. Mama and the baby in childbirth not three years ago. For the longest time it was simply Kenny and Kevin…until two years ago when Kev got drafted into the War. Since then Kenny had worked in a Tobacco Shop, catering to Germany's finest Nazi's. But he always knew that the time would come—and here he was. Eighteen years of age, no longer able to dodge the call of War, the call of Germany to exterminate the weak. Kenny Cormick was 6'3, creamy skinned, electric blue eyed, sandy blonde haired and way too skinny. Perfection in the flesh. The epitome of the Aryan race. "Hands to your side's soldier"

He'd been waiting all his life for this. For the adrenaline of holding a gun, for the pride of stopping at nothing to defend his country. Soldier. Kenny Cormick liked that. He liked it a lot.

**Location; Grünberg, Poland 1943**

"NO" The passionate screams of Kyle Broflovski can be heard for miles around—but there is nobody around to hear it right now—his wails fall upon desensitized German ears. "NO, MAMMA"

His mother's face is pressed against a rough tabletop, no doubt scarring her ivory skin. "Go Kyle" Sheila pants, defeated. "Go bubby" Kyle is reluctant, he holds on tight to his little brother Ike's hand, feels tears trickle down his pallid cheeks. After hiding for so long why now? Why couldn't they have stayed in solitude infinitely? The final thing he sees as he walks away from his mother forever is her skirt being flipped up and the heartless soldier grinning.

Guilt washes over Kyle when he realizes there's no way they can escape anyways. Soldiers stand at guard around every turn. '_I could've spent my last moments with her' _He pulls his gingerbread-red curls over his cloudy gaze. "Ike stay right here" With a sudden fire the Jewish boy whips open the door to his home. The General's trousers are unbuttoned, Shelia cries silently as she's degraded. Her eyes widen a thousand sizes when her teenage son barges in. He slams a fist around the Nazi's throat and holds him up against the wall.

"A feisty one I see" Another man steps up behind Kyle and pries him off the General. He rubs the blade of a knife—stained autumn red to the hilt—precariously over the Jew's jugular vein. "Should I kill him?"

"No Cormick" Replies the General "Bring him to Auschwitz, him and the little boy. They'll prove themselves useful. If not, to the chambers."

The soldier—skin that was once white but is now a weather beaten tawny brown, shale brown hair and spectacular blue eyes. Kevin Cormick has aged a century in two years. The Nazi spits on Kyle's chest before dragging him outside violently. "Come with me, dirty Kike"

_In Flanders fields the poppies blow_

_Between the crosses, row on row,_

_That mark our place; and in the sky_

_The larks, still bravely singing, fly_

_Scarce heard amid the guns below._

_We are the Dead. Short days ago_

_We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,_

_Loved and were loved, and now we lie,_

_In Flanders fields._

_Take up our quarrel with the foe:_

_To you from failing hands we throw_

_The torch; be yours to hold it high._

_If ye break faith with us who die_

_We shall not sleep, though poppies grow_

_In Flanders fields._


End file.
